“Pas de problème. I’m sure he will.”
The French words pricked my ears.
With a harsh pull, my new captor marched me forward. I had no choice but to do as he requested. After a while, he jerked me to a wobbling stop. My rib twinged, but I stood straight and tall. Hunching would show cowardice and uncertainty. I was none of those things. The moment the hood was off, I was running.
A rope looped over my head, catching my ears through the black cloth. I tossed my head, feeling like a prized pony; a thoroughbred ready for the glue factory.
Manly voices murmured, warbling with deep tones and gruffness. I strained to hear, but the wind snatched the vowels before I could comprehend.
The screech of aircraft engines grew louder as another plane landed. We had to be at a commercial airport, but I must’ve been smuggled in via cargo. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew we hadn’t been in a cabin with soft seats and air-hostesses. It had been icy cold and dreadfully uncomfortable.
I stood, shivering, while men talked. The tears I shed froze on my cheeks, reminding me to keep my frosty exterior to survive. I had to become an icicle—cool and impenetrable, sharp and deadly.
A hand looped around my bound arm, guiding me forward. I tottered with them, blind and disorientated. The twine around my wrists burned with every jostle.
Why couldn’t they invest in handcuffs, or something not as rudimentary? After all, selling women must be a profitable business. What did I fetch? How much for a non-virgin Australian woman with an unfinished bachelor in property development?
I’ll buy back my freedom. Bubbles of manic laughter tickled. I’ll walk into a bank and ask for a loan to buy myself. Because I’m such a good investment. I snorted. Oh, God, I was losing it.
We didn’t walk far. We stopped and I stood with my heart thumping, waiting, waiting, waiting.
A sharp tug on my wrists, then I was free. My shoulders ached as I brought my arms forward, rolling, working out the kinks.
I was free.
In a wide-open space.
I could run.
Someone behind removed the rope around my neck, along with the hood. I looked left and right, investigating the new surroundings.
Three muscle men stood in a triangle around me. All in black suits, looking very Men in Black, dark haired, and rugged. The night-sky glittered with a pepper-spray of silver stars. A crescent moon sliced the black velvet. I wanted to stare in wonder.
“Get on board,” a man ordered, eyes hidden by shades, even in the dark. His accent was thick, wrapped in masculine authority. Placing hands on my shoulders, he pushed me toward a private plane.
The white fuselage glowed, looking sleek, modern, dripping with wealth. Initials Q.M. scrawled in fancy calligraphy on the tail and wing tips.
Was this the man who bought me? A wealthy owner of a jet who bought women like a pair of new socks? If he was so wealthy, he didn’t need to buy willing partners… unless… I swallowed hard. Perhaps he had sick fetishes. Liked to hurt and indulge in sadistic pleasures.
How long would I survive?
I wasn’t about to find out.
“Go on. Climb the steps.”
It’s now or never, Tess.
I bounced on the balls of my feet, pretending to obey. My body revved with energy and I pivoted in thigh-high socks. I’d always been a runner. I used to run track for school, and jogged every day on the treadmill to get in shape for the holiday with Brax.
My body knew how to flee.
I shut my mind off and instinct took over.
I flew.
The cold tarmac bit my feet as I pushed harder. Men burst into action. They’ll probably shoot. I don’t care. A bullet to the head might be a better choice.
“Arrêt!” a man shouted, followed by “Merde!”
I sucked air—it whistled in my lungs. I had no clue where I headed. Hangars loomed like gaping mouths. Sparkling lights of the main terminal looked like the gates of heaven, too far in the distance.
The words Charles De Gaulle were bright and gaudy, taunting with hope and safety. Too far. I could never run that distance. Not with the suited hounds on my tail, quickly gaining traction.
Men closed the distance and I added another burst of speed. If only I could truly fly. Perhaps I could get free.
A cannonball of a body came from nowhere, cutting off my trajectory.
We toppled to the ground. The tarmac grated my thigh and I cried out in agony.
My tackler sat up, straddling me. He looked like the other guards—eyes hidden behind dark glasses, and his black suit crisp and all business.
My chest heaved with air and regret, stabbing me with pain from my rib. I tried. I failed. The second lot of tears burned, streaking down my flushed cheeks as the man hauled me upright.
I limped, wincing on a sprained ankle. I wanted to wail and shout. My body shackled me with yet another injury; I couldn’t outrun anyone.
Head down and hope gone, I hobbled back to the plane under the stern grip of guard Number Four.
I didn’t make eye contact with any of the men, and meekly climbed the steps into the private plane. The men muttered and laughed while I plonked into a white leather chair in defeat.
I tried. I failed. I tried. I failed. It repeated, over and over.
Don’t give up. Next time, you could win. Next time, it might work. My hands curled—I would never stop looking for a way out.
Never.
* * * * *
“Get up. We’re here.” A foot prodded my swollen ankle.
I flinched and opened my eyes. Faking sleep hadn’t worked. Every moment we flew in the height of luxury, I seethed with thoughts of how to maim the guards and take the plane hostage.
But I didn’t do anything. I sat in the chair, like a blow up doll.
It seemed so long ago I’d hounded Brax for more kinkiness in our love life. I’d do anything to have my old life back, my old love returned. I’d give anything for sweet and pure instead of the dark, sinister, and sadistic ownership that awaited.
If I could press a rewind button, I would, beginning with never going to Mexico.
I stood, and guard Number Four helped me down the plush, carpeted aisle. Coarse fingers wrapped around my burning wrists, passing me to a colleague at the bottom of the small flight of stairs. The bandage over the tattoo provided very little protection. The pain flared and itched. I hated it.
The moment I was on the ground, I froze. We stood in the middle of a manicured, grassy airstrip, frosty with ice, dark as the depths of hell, apart from the most gorgeous manor house I’d ever seen in the distance. Subtle outdoor lighting illuminated the soft pastel creams, blues, and pinks; French architecture at its finest.